


Writer's Block

by TheLadyOfFangorn



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Nostalgia, Reminescence, slightly depressed fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:40:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23144824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLadyOfFangorn/pseuds/TheLadyOfFangorn
Summary: When writer's block strikes, one can become nostalgic for times past(This is a short original work. I am considering continuing it at some point in the future.)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1





	Writer's Block

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Thank you for giving my fic some of your time! I apologize for any spelling or grammar mistakes.

I sighed heavily, staring at the blank screen in front of me. For hours, I had tried to write something, anything at all of worth, but anything that I wrote seemed shallow and dreary to my harried mind. Looking out the window at the dreary mist that had been falling for some time now, I sighed again.   
Getting up, I went to the kitchen to grab more coffee, and to get my mom’s old blanket I kept squirreled away on top of the fridge. I only snuggled in it when I was feeling depressed. Wrapping the soft cotton around me, I buried my face in its pretty green lining and simply breathed. If I was still enough, I fancied that I could still smell her perfume on it- that wonderful, slightly floral scent that brought back childhood memories. Good day or bad, she had always worn that perfume, spritzing it on lightly from an antique bottle. It was the smell of mother, of mornings laced all through with sunlight and song, of evenings filled with love and storytelling.  
Shaking my head to dispel the flood of emotions that threatened to engulf me, I went back into my study. Pausing at the threshold, I took a moment to simply look at the room, as I did so rarely these days. It was a tiny hole of a place, barely as large as a decent-sized closet. The wallpapering was old and faded, a pattern of roses and lace that had no doubt been beautiful, before cruel time took its toll. The carpet was from a past era, with that wonderful, musty scent you find in ancient books and infused in dresses of times long gone by. My desk, worn and battered as it was, stood resolutely in the corner by the little window. I had rescued it from the scrapper's shop in the nick of time- it had been destined for firewood. It was too tall for me to sit at comfortably, the third drawer down stuck, and splinters regularly found their way into my hands and under my fingernails. I couldn’t have found a better vessel for my few treasured possessions if I had been looking all my life.  
Inside the drawers that still worked I kept my journals, a large pack of my favorite pens, and several blank Moleskines in case any ideas were to strike that needed special attention. A few books also had a home in those drawers, for they were my favorites; the companions I turned to when life got too much to handle.  
On top of the desk sat a shiny laptop, my holder of stories, and lately, my cause of frustration, for I was afflicted with the dreaded writer's block.  
I walked back to the desk and hopped into my chair, scootching it up to the desk. It was an old, creaky chair that might have once belonged to a dining set. Even though it matched nothing, it was just tall enough to lift my tiny frame up to the desk. I sighed again, and thought it made me sound like an old maid.


End file.
